


Early Days

by LittleSpider



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort, Danger, F/M, Origin Story, Strong Language, Swearing, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpider/pseuds/LittleSpider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha and Clint have been working together for six months and despite having brilliant work chemistry can't stand the sight of each other. But will their first mission together make, or break them?</p>
<p>(1 of 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Days

Early Days

 

The double doors of the training area flew open flooding the corridor with harsh tones and doors hitting metal stoppers.  
“--can’t even manage to hit a target without showing off!” the red headed woman yelled as she threw a scornful look at the blonde haired man stomping determinedly after her.  
“Well exccccccussse me!” he began, gesturing mockingly. “I’m sorry, hitting a target, blind, not checking for any environmental factors, ignoring the fact there were like 12 newbie’s watching, I think hitting the target, right in the damn middle deserves a little ‘whoop’ of celebration.”  
“And do you do that in the field?!” she asked, turning on a heel to stare at him.  
He managed to stop himself just in time so he didn’t walk straight into her. He had already annoyed her earlier when she caught him staring at her bosom while she pummelled the punch bag and didn’t want to end up in the infirmary with a broken nose for an accidental grope.  
“No. In the field I manage to keep my head and not get distracted. But seeing as that was meant to be a laid back training exercise, not a goddamn Russian Army Militar--”  
“You wouldn’t last five minutes in the Russian army…” she snorted as she turned on her heel again and carried on walking, undoing the strapping on her fists as she went. “You’re a ‘show boater’--I believe they call it over here. All piss and wind. You lack conviction. Cheap tricks…”  
“Cheap tricks, huh?” he began, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her around to face him. “While you were probably off drinking champagne and spiking old codger’s drinks in a hotel bar in Oslo, I was fighting terrorists in Tehran so you could sleep soundly in your bed at night!”  
Her eyes were ablaze with anger, a trace of saliva on her lips as she prepared to throw another insult his way.  
“Stop acting like some big shot Captain America--it’s not beco--”  
“Did I hear Captain America?”  
The pair looked up to see Agent Coulson stood there, a coffee in his hand and a bemused smile on his lips.  
“Sir.” she began formally, correcting her stance as Clint scratched the back of his neck and nodded in greeting.  
“Romanoff, Barton…” Coulson greeted back. “I was told you were in the training area. Been Sparring?”  
“…you might say that, Coulson.” Clint muttered.  
“We need both of you for a briefing at 09:00, usual place.” Coulson continued, sipping his drink.  
“Sir.” Romanoff nodded.  
“Good, well, you two hit the showers and I’ll see you later.”  
Coulson walked past sipping his coffee.  
Clint gave a grin and winked at Natasha.  
“Wanna hit the showers with me Romanoff?”  
“Only if you promise to drown…” she snarled and stalked off in the other direction.

*

09:00.  
Barton and Romanoff were sat in the briefing room at opposite sides of the table. Clint had to stop his eyes from wandering as even in standard SHIELD issue uniform she looked like a million dollars.  
Her long red hair hung over her shoulders like the Mona Lisa and even with just a slick of chapstick on her lips she looked like Marlyin Mon--  
“Barton. Romanoff. Your SO has been telling me you’ve exceeded expectations in your training exercises.” Director Fury began, looking at the paperwork in the black SHIELD branded folder, running his finger down the list. “In Six months you’ve managed to cover 9 months worth of Mock Missions gaining an average score of 112%…unheard of.”  
“Sir.” Romanoff acknowledged.  
“…however, I’ve also got that you’ve both three verbal warnings for misconduct.”  
“Sir. I--”  
“3rd of February: Romanoff reprimanded verbally for shouting: “Useless American _Mandavoshka_ \--am I pronouncing that right?”  
“…sir…”  
“6th of April, Barton reprimanded verbally for calling Romanoff a: ‘Soulless bitch who takes money from anybody who would offer it. ‘ “  
“Director Fury--I can see why that looks bad but--”  
“I’m not done, Barton…” Fury began, his one good eye rolling up from the paper to look at him. “24th of May, both of you ended up in the infirmary after what you say was nothing serious but required you both to get stitched…Do I even wanna know?”  
Both shook their heads.  
“…I’m surprised how you can both work so damn well in a danger room exercise yet fail to exchange polite niceties while in the canteen eating Mac and cheese but I’m telling you both…screw this up, and you will both be in disciplinary so fast your asses won’t scrape the sidewalk…understand?”  
“Sir…” Romanoff responded.  
“Screw what up, sir…” Barton continued.  
“…You have your first mission together. Simple in and out. You get in, you remove the technology, you get to the extraction point. You come back to base.”  
Barton nodded.  
“Technology.” she began. “What kind of technology and where from?”  
“It’ll be in the mission pack.”  
“I’d rather know what I’m expected to steal before I accept the mission.”  
Barton rolled his eyes.  
“It’s not stealing, Romanoff. It’s taking something deadly out of the hands of people who want to blow up half the planet.”  
“A weapon.” she deduced.  
“No, it’s an electric fork that spins…” Barton muttered scratching at a scuff on the table with his thumbnail.  
“ _Raspizdyay Kolhoznii…._ ” she hissed.  
“ENOUGH!” Fury slammed his hand on the desk.  
“You have one shot. ONE mission to make this work. You can curse in Russian, Persian or fucking Thai for all I give a shit. You can slap each other around until its Thanksgiving but get that tech here in one piece, on time or you are DONE. Both of you.”  
Barton looked to Romanoff who had probably just destroyed him in Russian but she looked as earnest as he did.  
“Sir.” Barton nodded.  
She echoed the sentiment.  
“Sir.”

*

Sat on her bunk in her black mission ready jumpsuit she examined the mission file for the third time.  
Simple. Too simple.  
They were bound to Ecuador. SHIELD had Intel that a powerful piece of technology was being stored in an underground containment area just on the coast ready to be transported at dusk to Papua New Guinea and from there, who knows. Their inside man had provided a window where security would be minimal and could provide them with access to the exact location. But after that they would need to rely on their skills.  
The weapon would be well protected even with minimal security so they would need to be swift and have eyes everywhere.  
Natasha almost laughed when she saw Barton’s code name: ‘Hawk-eye’. This man had no eyes of a hawk; he had eyes only for his reflection in the mirror.  
Sitting with her hands in her lap, she sat quietly for a while, following perhaps one of the few traditions from the old country she had not yet abandoned.  
Just then there was a smart ‘rapping’ on the door.  
She looked up to see Barton stood there, already letting himself in, head to foot in black SHIELD uniform.  
“…you ready, red?”  
“Give me a moment.” she said coldly.  
“…scared?” he grinned, shoving his archery quiver up his shoulder a little more.  
She looked up straight in the eye.  
“Barton. I may be many, many things. But never scared.” she said uneasily as she stood up.  
Clint’s eyes strolled gently over the figure hugging uniform before darting back to her green eyes.  
“Alright…let’s go.”


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

Natasha sat opposite Barton in the small jet that was to deposit them in the drop zone near Manta. They were ten minutes off landing and despite her boasts of being unafraid; there was an uncomfortable twinge in her gut.  
She had always worked alone before. She alone had done what needed to be done and had got in and out. Any body else on side would just be a hindrance.  
Now she had that oaf to deal with, shadowing her steps, three paces behind her in every way.  
She cast a glance up at him as he checked his equipment again.  
It was the fourth time this trip. He had some sort of compulsion with that primitive weapon.  
What could was a bow and arrow in close combat? Would she need to be ducking flying arrows as she darted seamlessly through corridors?  
She was certain in the Olympics he would win Silver, perhaps even Gold but in battle?  
She really hoped he was going to at least pull his weight.  
Checking the tightness of an arrow head that was filled with purple fluid he spoke.  
“You’re checking this thing out like it was a library book Romanoff, want to touch it?”  
She scowled at him.  
“No, thank you.” she responded coldly. “I just hope you behave the way you did in the training and don’t try any Tarzan calls…”  
“Oh no, I save those for the bedroom…” he grinned and winked at her.  
She exaggerated a shudder and looked to the pilot.  
“ETA?”  
“Seven minutes, Agent Romanoff.” the pilot called back  
“So, those fancy gloves. What do they do?” he asked, closing the lid on his bow case.  
She looked to him and then down at her Widow’s bites.  
“They have a high electrostatic charge; they will successfully electrocute anything they make contact with when activated and have a secondary weapons system that releases an instant knock-out gas to the person who inhales it. They’re very effective at close combat.”  
“So the guns you’re packing up your ass are overkill?”  
She half smiled.  
“They’re in case I get lazy.” she muttered.  
He seemed to smile back and looked up at the ceiling of the jet.  
“This bit always sucks.”  
She looked to him.  
He looked back to her.  
“Waiting to actually get to your target.”  
She looked to her bites and wondered if she should tell her ‘partner’ if the waiting made the kill sweeter for her.

*

Landing in a rudimentary airfield they stepped out of the jet as Barton shook hands with the pilot and pushed his quiver up on his shoulder. He made a habit of this, Natasha realized.  
Barton turned to her, a look of seriousness on his face that seemed oddly alien after his antics at the hub.  
“We walk from here, keeping to back roads, no point trying to blend in; we’d stick out like sore thumbs. Head to the beach and if the coordinates our man provided us with are good, we should be able to find our place. After that…we’re playing it by ear.”  
She nodded once to show she understood as he fished in his back pocket for something. She knew SHIELD were advanced technology wise and expected him to fish some sort of gizmo that would provide him with navigation but instead he pulled a folded, somewhat tattered map.  
“…Right…” he looked up at the sky to check for the sun and looked at his watch before turning and pointing. “That way, 15 minutes if we pick it up.”  
She nodded and began to walk in that direction as he followed close behind, drawing level after a few strides.  
“…What was your last mission?” he asked.  
She looked to him and averted her eyes to the horizon.  
“Aren’t we meant to be keeping vigilant?”  
“We can talk and be vigilant.” he retorted. “Unless multitasking is beneath you.”  
“Beneath me?” she said a rapidly reducing tinge of scorn. “I just want to focus on the job.”  
Barton shrugged and carried on walking.  
“No skin off my nose. If you think your war stories aren’t that good…”  
Natasha was not going to rise to the bait and carried on walking.  
A good silent 15 minutes later they drew close to the meeting point. A ramshackle shed with a green rag nailed to the door.  
Their cue.  
Clint tapped on the door.  
“Abra! Es tu Paolo.” he muttered, giving his code phrase.  
The door opened swiftly and he was stood face to face with a hardened looking guard. He was clean shaven, but his uniform was looking creased and a tell tale redness in his eye suggested he had been waiting up all night for this meeting.  
“Come in.” he offered in heavily accented English.

*

The guard was packing his final things into the suitcase as he gave Clint the information they had come for.  
“Your organization is smart. They pay me only half now. Half when you get in. I’m leaving as soon as you get in. I can get out of Ecuador on what your guys sent me.”  
“Just tell us what to expect.”  
The guard went through a security detail, showing him a crudely drawn map.  
“Here, are two guards. They are both family men so do not kill them…” he urged. “The next room is more heavily guarded by a security system. None of us have the complete pass code to the room after so I hope you have some sort of hacking program.”  
“Don’t worry about that.” Natasha muttered from behind Barton as she looked at the map, committing it to memory.  
“…The main room, I have never been in but friends have told me that it has many, many security devices.”  
Natasha stared at the two men.  
THIS man was their intel?  
This guy had never even seen what they were set to retrieve.  
This was all SHIELD could muster.  
Checking the small, boarded up window, she could see the light beginning to fade.  
“…Let’s wrap this up.” she urged.

*

Getting in was as easy as they said. The outside of the unremarkable building was protected by a simple pass card system that unlocked the door.  
The man had given them a spare before hi-tailing it out of there and it had got them in all right.  
They hadn’t really anticipating walking in but both armed; they gave each other a look that assured they had each others back and burst in.  
Several men stood at the desk, huddled around a monitor, two had their guns out already.  
Natasha got a horrid feeling that they’d been lied to.  
Barton moved fast, grabbing her and dragging her behind the leather couch before ducking and firing in quick succession to take out the men.  
When the last man had fallen, Barton turned to her, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he reloaded his pistols.  
“…fucking traitor.” he spat.  
“We’ll call it in later.” she muttered, reloading her own. “We’re going in blind.”  
Barton nodded.  
“Wow, something new…” he deadpanned before getting up again and looking for the code panel, hoping he hadn’t been lying about that too.  
She saw it first and got up, striding to it and opening the small metal cover.  
“I can get this thing open…” she began quietly. “Buy me time. I think we’ve tripped some security systems with our Wild West shoot out…”  
Barton made a noise.  
“…Sorry, next time we have our asses being shot at I’ll let YOU take care of it, should I?”  
Natasha wasn’t listening; she was already trying to unscrew the control panel.  
Barton made another noise of disapproval.  
“…You rescue someone, give them a new life and they treat you like a fucking errand boy.”  
Natasha got the control panel open and investigated the wiring, quickly processing the circuitry that made it up.  
“You know, If I hadn’t have taken you in and left you for dead you’d probably be at the bottom of some European river right now with a stone around your ne--”  
“Shut up!” she hissed. “I’m trying to work.”  
Barton sighed, walked past her and pushed his hand into the small control panel, ripping the wires out rapidly.  
The doors clicked and slid open as Natasha watched the remains of the wiring spark.  
“…You’re welcome.” he muttered and backed against the wall, taking a cautionary peek around the corner into the next chamber. “…It’s an elevator…”  
He moved to get in but Natasha pushed him against the wall, her fingers pressing against his vest.  
“Do not interfere with my work.” she said darkly.  
“It got done.” he snapped and took her hand off his chest, throwing it aside carelessly. “Stop whining.”  
“Do I take your cock out and teach you how to piss? No. So let me do MY job.”  
Barton threw her a scandalized look as she entered the elevator and followed, somewhat dumbstruck.  
The elevator doors closed after she had clicked the ‘door close’ button and hit the only other button in there which was labelled: ‘B’.  
The elevator slid down smoothly without a lurch as they stood, the air thick with hostility.  
She was going to get through this, get back to base and get rid of him. She would gladly take being paired with a blind, deaf, incontinent mule than take Barton out on a mission again.  
The elevator doors slid open and immediately shots were fired, bouncing off the metal doors before they had even managed to reveal the SHIELD agents inside.  
Natasha pressed herself against the panels, gaining some cover from the door before taking a brief glance outside as Barton started firing.  
“…There’s at least fifteen. Door at the bottom of the corridor.” she relayed. “I think that’s where the objective is. Got tricks in that quiver?”  
“I got tricks, no miracles though.” he replied, trying to press against the wall as shots screamed past and embedded themselves in the wall.  
Natasha looked to him.  
“Take out as many as you can, then cover your mouth.”  
“…What?”  
“Just do it!”  
He wanted to argue but didn’t as he started firing again, dropping one pistol in favour of another as she slipped her bite from her hand, waiting for him to stop before throwing it.  
She slipped her glove over her mouth and nose as she began to hear coughing and the sounds of bodies dropping.  
Barton’s eyes were wide as he stared at her incredulously over his mouth. Precious seconds of silence passed before she and Barton took a cautionary glance into the dimly lit room.  
Those who weren’t dead were now unconscious as a smoky haze clung to the air, her bite glowing faint blue and emitting the last remnants of a faded blue gas.  
She slowly pulled her hand away before walking in, her pistol trained on every dark corner for a flicker of movement as he followed.  
Every man who wasn’t knocked out had a bloody entry wound in his forehead or between his eyes.  
Barton was good…  
“…Your ‘bite’ did this…?” he began, surveying the damage.  
“Yes.”  
“How long will they be--?”  
“Enough time to get us out and more.” she responded to his unfinished sentence. “…Come on, we’re behind as it is.”  
Barton stared at her, unable to believe her collected attitude in a room full of dead or unconscious men having dodged a barrage of shots.  
Slipping the spent bite back onto her hand, she looked to the door.  
No lock. No pad. Nothing.  
How the fuck were they meant to get in?  
Barton looked up at the ceiling, hoping to see something to get them in but was disappointed.  
“It must be behind here…why the protection…and what were these guys doing?”  
“…This was an ambush. I’d be surprised if there weren’t sixty of them waiting for us when we get out.” she replied, her fingers brushing the wall around the door.  
“Should I ring it in?”  
“Not yet. No point in calling a cab unless we have the goodies.”  
“This isn’t some bank heist, Romanoff.” Barton scoffed.  
She turned to look at him to find him pulling out his SHIELD issued cell phone, something she had not yet been given.  
“And this isn’t a time to check your damn voicemail.” she sneered.  
He gave her a withering look before activating what looked like a camera flash on the cell’s back.  
Shining the white light around the door frame, they watched as panel in white appeared.  
“UV.” he began. “Basic…Really fucking basic. I wonder who did these guys’ security, fucking Hy--”  
He staggered forwards.  
And Natasha felt a sudden cold fear as she became aware of the sound of a shot being fired.  
Her gun was in her hand and before she was even aware of what had happened, the guy who had fired that shot was dead and her pistol was smoking.  
She looked to Barton who was near collapsing onto her.  
“…fuck…fuck…no…no…” he was muttering, colour draining from his face as his hand went to his back.  
Her hand reached it first as she supported him and found blood.  
“…Right, Barton, don’t panic. You’ve been shot. Let me call in the extraction--”  
“No…” he managed to groan. “…get the objective--it’s why we’re here.”  
She lowered him to the floor with as much gentleness as she could supporting him, and leaning him against an upturned chair.  
She fished in her utility belt and found some gauze in a plastic wrapper. Shredding the wrapper she pressed it firmly to the wound.  
He flinched, his face becoming sweaty as he fought back the pain.  
She took his chin in her hand and looked straight into his eyes.  
“Listen to me. You’re gonna hold that pad there…right?”  
He nodded, swallowing thickly as she guided his hand to the rapidly moistening pad.  
She pushed her gun into his other hand.  
“Anyone twitches, you blow their brains out.”  
He nodded.  
“…Oh…you got it…Top of…my priorities.”  
She nodded and got up, blood on her hands. She grabbed his disregarded phone, shining the UV light around the door.  
Studying it.  
She saw the numbers. They were touch activated.  
Thinking quickly, she looked to the floor, sweeping the dust from it into her palm.  
“…wh-what are you doing?” Barton groaned.  
“Something I picked up in Switzerland.”  
She blew the dust from the floor into the touch panel and smiled as it clung to the pad. Four numbers…four streaks.  
“…They shouldn’t employ such lazy guards…They even told me the order of the numbers…dust clings to finger streaks…”  
“…that’s…actually pretty…sneaky…Romanoff.” he said weakly. “…remind me…never to use an ATM around you.”  
She looked towards him.  
“I’ll be right back. I’ll get what we came for, and then we are gonna get the fuck out of here.”  
He gave a feeble nod.  
“Okay.”  
She quickly hit the digits and watched as the door slid open.  
She slipped into the cool chamber and heard the door slide shut behind her.  
Walking forwards, her hands clenched, drenched in Barton’s blood she saw a metal case with a glass window.  
Opening the clasp with bloody fingers, she looked at it.  
The Technology…  
What they had been sent to get.  
All of this bloodshed…  
She reached in and retrieved the small memory stick before hitting the number panel on this side and heading to the other room again.  
Barton was still propped against his support and his eyes were drooping.  
She dashed to his side and took his chin in her hand again, shaking it slightly.  
“Hey! Wake up!”  
His eyes startled open as he looked to her.  
“…did…did you get it?”  
She held the memory stick up for him to see.  
“…I got shot in the fucking back for a 12GB?!”  
“Shh.” she urged and took his comm, her hand going to his back to check the wound. The pad was soaked with blood; she reached into her utility belt to get another.  
“Romanoff here. We need extraction. Agent Barton is down. Expect hostile greeting, it was an ambush.” she began clearly as she pressed another pad to the wound, guiding his cold, bloody hand over it.  
Barton hissed in pain.  
“I have your location. Sending in a team right now. Do you have the objective?” came the response.  
“I have it…” she said before sliding the memory stick into where her bra securely.  
“Extraction has been sent. Stay where you are and wait for our men to find you.”  
She deactivated the mic on the piece before looking to Barton who was now paler than ever, but he had a stupid grin on his face.  
“…Always keep your objectives in there?”  
“…It takes them longer to frisk a woman than a man…And they are less likely to stick their hand in there without violating several subsections of the Geneva Convention…” she responded, putting her hand over his and pressing harder.  
“…I never…get used to being shot.” he muttered, wrinkling his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut.  
“Keep it together Barton. I’m an Assassin, not a counsellor.” she replied with a touch of impatience.  
“…Clint.”  
She looked at him. “What?”  
“…Fucks sake…call…me Clint.” he muttered.  
She looked at him for a moment wondering if this request was through fear and the need to hear a friendly voice. Swallowing thickly again, he wiped the perspiration off his face with his gloved hand and leaned back.  
“…ever been shot…?” he asked.  
She looked at him.  
“…many times.”  
He rested his head back and closed his eyes.  
“…This is the quietest you’ve ever been.” she said after a moment, tapping his chin.  
He smiled faintly, an anaemic smile that stretched his pale lips.  
“…Savour it…Its pretty…rare.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3


	3. Part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha wrestles with her conscience after delivering a wounded Clint back to SHIELD.

Part 3

Natasha had dragged Barton out of there to find a bloody battle ground at the extraction point. The extraction team had disposed of the 'welcoming committee' that were waiting for the two agents. At least 15 men, all dead at the hands of SHIELD trained soldiers.  
Barton had raised his head, the helicopters blades spinning wildly, cooling the sweat on his brow and had smiled weakly.  
“...Now that...is a sight for sore eyes.”  
Two men ran over with a stretcher and helped him onto it and she became suddenly very aware of the absence of his warm, shaking weight from her left side—she had pulled him through the base, shaking him every so often to keep him alert.  
A third man led her onto the plane after asking if she was alright.  
Natasha nodded, swallowing down confusion and ran up the ramp to the plane where they had taken him. Back, way in the back.  
She had been urged to buckle up as they prepared to take off from the prospective hot zone and she had remained in her seat ever since as the men, she later learned were medics worked on Barton.  
This is why she worked alone.  
No distractions.  
No failures.  
No attachment  
And now the hollow feeling. The balloon of discomfort in her gut that seemed to be attached to the quiet chaos in the corner was growing bigger and bigger.  
She scrunched her fists up in the tight fabric, the red, now dry blood on her hands cracking, the fabric pressing against the creases in her hands providing a cleansing pain.  
Something to forget the guilt that was suffocating her.  
Words carried over to her on the flight back to base. Phrases that twisted her guts and dampened her palms.  
“He's A negative. Get at least four units on standby.”  
“There isn't an exit wound. He'll need surgery.”  
She remained focused forwards, she could not let her eyes drift towards him.  
She had held her comrades hands as they died.  
She had pushed her finger into their torn jugulars to keep them alive long enough to get help.  
She had pulled chunks of her dead colleagues out of her hair after a bomb blast but she just couldn't look at the man who had been shot.  
As the plane came into land, the ramp lowered and there was another medical team waiting and Coulson, his forehead strained his jaw set and his eyes on the man that was rushed past on the stretcher.  
His eyes crossed to her as she stood, the objective in her dry, bloody hands.  
For some reason, his scrutinizing gaze was almost as taboo as Barton's wounded body.  
“...Follow me, Romanoff.”

*  
The Objective had been delivered to the right hands as Coulson led her into his office and gestured for her to sit.  
She had been denied the opportunity to shower or even wash her hands.  
She had the feeling she had fucked up.  
Fucked up bad.  
Coulson took a pen and paper and asked her to relay the encounter as he annotated a document.  
She described the entire mission from start to finish. It was automatic. No embellishments. Simple bullet pointed details.  
After clicking his pen once, Coulson put the paper aside and looked at her.  
“...Are you alright, Romanoff?”  
She nodded quickly. Too quickly.  
Coulson put the pen down.  
“This was your first mission in the field, it went south, I'm sorry for that--”  
“Missions go south all of the time, Agent Coulson After all, it wasn't you who failed to verify the room was safe.”  
“Romanoff--”  
“Sir. I fucked up.”  
Coulson looked like he'd like to argue with her but instead he let out a sharp exhale of air and sat back.  
“Barton is in surgery right now. They say that if he'd lost more blood you'd have been dragging a corpse out of there. But you didn't. You saved his life.”  
“He got shot because of me.”  
“He got shot because that son of a bitch shot him.”  
“...Sir. I should have checked.  
“Romanoff. This is a debrief.Not a pity party. Mistakes happen. But you got the data and you saved his life.”  
“I did my job.”  
Coulson inclined his head and leaned forwards.  
“Give me your hand, Romanoff.”  
Natasha looked at him.  
“...Sorry?”  
“...Romanoff.”  
She hesitantly extended her hand.  
Coulson took it and examined it.  
“...See this? This blood?”  
Natasha nodded it.  
“This says you saved his life. This tells me you held that wound tight and you knew what to do. This tells me you succeeded.”  
Natasha remained silent.  
Coulson let go of her hand and picked up a card on the desk.  
“Barton will be in theater for the next few hours. Go and get a shower. Go and get some sleep, and then take this to ICU, fourth floor. I know you'll be wanting to know how he is. That gets you in.”  
Natasha wanted to decline.  
“Sir, I...”  
“Believe me, he'd want to see you.”  
Natasha felt her chest tighten a little at that and took the card before her face gave away anything she'd rather not convey.  
“Sir.” she nodded and got up before leaving quickly.

*  
Washing the grime of the mission, the blood from her body was something almost ritualistic for her. A rebirth. A shedding of skin after a savage meal.  
This time the guilt did not wash away, it clung to her fingers, embedding itself in her fingernails long after she had scrubbed it away with a nail brush.  
As she sat on the bed, her towel wrapped around her she thought of things she could have done differently so that the mission hadn't been such a catastrophe.  
She should have put bullets in everyone’s head before proceeding.  
She should have packed the wound more effectively.  
She should have packed her smith and Wesson instead,  
And after she had redone the mission in her head, she lay back on the bed to get that rest she had been ordered to have.  
Her mind wandered back to the way he asked her to call him Clint and she realized that since their partnering, six months ago, she had never addressed him by his first name.  
Agent Barton. Barton. Agent. Hot shot. Tough Guy. Idiot. Moron. Zalupa.  
Never his first name.  
He had Natasha at first. Natalia when he wanted to be cutting—and it worked. More commonly, Romanoff.  
But at least he'd managed to be civil half the time.  
Natasha was a social butterfly. She could charm the milk into butter with the right words, for the right price. But dealing with other people during down time?  
Not on a mission.  
Coulson had initially given her the term 'prickly' during her assessment, which she deemed to be a polite way of saying: 'abrasive bitch'.  
She had always been taught to keep other people at arms length, that way you could survey them, find their weak points while still deluding them into believing you were holding them close.  
Now suddenly her grip was getting weak and they were getting closer.  
Coulson had touched her hand today, held it gently in his, not tight as though keeping it from harming anyone as he had done when he first saw her and she had lashed out at him like a wounded animal, but with care and consideration.  
When was the last time anyone had done that?  
And Barton, today. He was weak, and scared and he had held onto her like she was the only thing keeping him cleft to the earth.  
Why trust her so?  
Did this uniform hide the monster in her?  
The monster they believed her to be?  
There was a dull ache in her gut that was nothing to do with the fact she had carried him, a dead weight through the labyrinth of a building...  
It was a...  
...longing.  
To see him.  
To check he was alright.  
To check he'd come out of surgery.  
Casting a glance at the plastic pass card Coulson had given to her she got up and started to dress.  
*  
Hesitantly walking into the ICU section, a few rooms attached to the main medical wing of the building she flashed her card to the reader and waited as the door clicked open.  
Heading in, she looked around.  
Four rooms and a nurses station at the heart of it.  
She decided to announce herself quietly.  
“Excuse me...” she began. “...I'm Natasha Romanoff, I'm here to see Agent Barton?”  
The nurse saw her ID pass attached to her jeans and asked her to sign in and turn out her pockets.  
Natasha understood this was a common procedure in SHIELD compounds but didn't expect to have to hand over her chewing gum and lip balm.  
The nurse got up having stowed her belongings under the desk and opened the door of room with dimmed blinds.  
The steady beeping of the various monitors escaped the room as she led Natasha in.  
“The surgery went well.” the nurse confirmed as Natasha stared at the man in the bed. “The bullet was removed and the damaged sustained was not too bad. He's lost a lot of blood,but he's doing well. He won't be awake for some time, it was a big oper--”  
“Thank you.”  
The nurse's lip gave a smile as the stoic red head blurted out the kindness.  
“Do you want to stay with him?”  
Natasha's bottom lip tensed.  
“Visiting hours are--”  
“Take your time.”  
The nurse left Natasha standing in the quiet, claustrophobic room with her unconscious partner.  
Sitting down beside the bed in the plastic chair she leaned forwards to get a good look at him.  
He was looking a lot less pale than the last time she had saw him but had a day's worth of grain on his chin.  
Without his tightened jaw, intense blue eyed stare and sarcastic eyebrow he seemed pretty...  
Normal.  
Human...  
Even his blonde-brown hair seemed stark in colour next to his pallid skin, the brown smears under his eyes, the pale pink of his lips that were parted with drowsiness.  
A pack of A negative hung up on the tall metal pole beside him next to a bag of pain killers that would keep him from feeling the rawness of it for a good few days and the breathing tube in his nose took the strain out of getting his own oxygen.  
Natasha sat back and blinked away all of the relief she had got from seeing him looking at least...marginally better.  
His one hand was resting across his stomach, accommodating a tangle of wires and tubes.  
The other on his side, adorned by a plastic tag.  
Leaning in, she saw in the fuzzy, half smudged, blue Biro.  
“Barton, Clinton Francis.”--followed by a date of birth she could use as blackmail later on.  
“Clinton...” she smiled, finding the name amusing for some reason.  
“...actually...I’d prefer...just Clint....actually...”  
Her eyes moved up to see Barton looking vaguely down at her.  
She sat up, her mouth dropping open a little before she caught it.  
“Hey...” she began. “Uh...how are you feeling?”  
He closed his eyes, screwed up his face and groaned.  
“...Shit. Really shit...” he muttered. “Fuck...that's gonna scar...”  
His hand was at his bandage and was peeling at the gauze pad.  
She took his hand and pulled it away.  
“Clint, don't.”  
He froze and looked at her, smiling vaguely, his eyes looking like they were trying very hard to push the eyebrows up.  
“...y'called me Clint...”  
“...Its better than Clinton.” she replied.  
He grinned, the anaemic lips pushing back to reveal a smile that she was very grateful to be the recipient off.  
“...You're drugged...” she smiled to him, putting his hand on the bed again.  
“...If I’m drugged...can I...make wildly outrageous and...inappropriate statements...that won''t get me...a black eye?” he mumbled, his fingers tracing her wrist in a 'please stay' motion.  
She smiled.  
“No promises.”  
He gave a soft laugh, a single exhalation of amusement before resting his hair back, the bristles scrunching against the starchy pillow.  
“...I can't catch...a break...”  
“...Get some sleep before you say something you regret.” she urged, her fingers on his wrist.  
“...Alright...I'll get some...sleep...” he muttered. “...stay here...okay...? I'll be...back in a...minute...” he muttered, near deliriously.  
“I'll stay.” she promised.  
“...Alright...” he responded, closing his eyes and tilting his face away from the soft lamplight.  
The tightness in her gut was unwinding, replaced by a warm, hot honey filling her gut.  
“...Hey...”  
“...Yes, Clint?”  
“...Thank you...'Tasha.”  
And just like that...her stomach tightened again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part three of three.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of three.


End file.
